


Written

by songlin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1950s, Alchemy, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Animals, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Blow Jobs, Colonial America, Drugs, Fairy Tales, Genderswap, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pirates, Prostitution, Red String of Fate, Renaissance Era, Secret Relationship, Soulmates, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unsafe Sex, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songlin/pseuds/songlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Every time they meet, the universe holds its breath. It is never an accident. They don't know it yet, but this has happened before, and it might happen again. Then again, it might not. If they're lucky.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>But they've never been lucky.</i>
</p><p>A series of tales throughout time and space detailing every attempt the universe has made at Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Heavily inspired by Cloud Atlas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Cats in the Priory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatgingergirl16](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thatgingergirl16).



> A few weeks ago, [fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic](http://fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic.tumblr.com/) ran a contest in which the winner would get to request a fanfiction of me or a few other authors. Thatgingergirl16 won me, and her prompt was as follows: "Well, I do like those stories where John and Sherlock are meant to be together? Like it’s destiny/fate/written in the stars/the red string effect, whatever. Is there anyway the lovely songlin could incorporate that to span across time? Similar to ‘Cloud Atlas’ (movie)? She can make it any rating she likes. :)"
> 
> Well, I saw, read and LOVED Cloud Atlas, so I got...excited. Really excited. So I started planning and drabbling and researching, and quickly realized that I was writing a _lot_ more than a oneshot. So I present to you a series of interwoven stories told more or less in the style of Cloud Atlas as well as inspired by.
> 
> It begins with a fairy tale that would work as a standalone but was enough in the vein of the other stories that I felt it worked as an introduction. From there, there will be five other stories presented. Three will be told at once in a cycle throughout the few chapters entitled "Two Men of Note." There will then be one story presented in one chapter, and one chapter for the resolution, set in the canon-verse.
> 
> I tell you this because otherwise you will be very, very confused, I think. I'm trying to make things as clear as possible by marking shifts in setting with the year and location, but let me know if things are still a little too baffling.
> 
> I will probably post updates on progress on [my Tumblr](http://songlinwrites.tumblr.com/) if you want to track it more closely. Without further ado, I present Written, and I swear to God it gets less weird/depressing/full of cats.

**Eltisley Priory, 869**

There was something strange happening with the black cat at Eltisley Priory.

Sister Mary Helena knew all the cats. Most of them came and went as they pleased, but there were a few familiar faces. There was an old orange tabby that she called Goodwife, and a sleek grey one she called Lady, and a fat black tom with patches of white called Moneylender.

And then there was Hunter, green-eyed and black as sin. Some of the cats were of a friendly disposition and would allow Sister Mary to scratch them behind the ears when they came for the scraps and bones she left by the step, but never Hunter. He never bit or clawed the sisters, but if he sensed a hand approaching he’d dart off quick as a wink. Nevertheless, he was Sister Mary’s favorite. He seemed...clever, almost uncannily so, and always had a look on his face as if he knew something you didn’t.

Of all the litters of kittens that had appeared in the abbey grounds over the years, Sister Mary had yet to see any bearing tell-tale sharp green eyes or smooth dark fur. It was not for lack of options. She’d personally witnessed a valiant but ultimately fruitless effort by Lady last spring. In the fall, she delivered a litter of three orange tabbies and one small grey female, but no progeny of the priory’s finest. She eyed Hunter craftily throughout the nursing and raising of her kittens, plotting.

The cook had sworn death to the beast the next time she caught him in the larder, but Sister Mary knew it was all for show. Hunter alone could probably keep the entire abbey pest-free. He left proof of his skill at the kitchen door, two or three mice lined up neatly in front of the landing. They appeared regularly as the moon every morning when Sister Mary opened the door to sweep the step.

“Sweet thing,” Sister Mary said fondly, brushing them off to the side.

Lady, lurking in the bushes nearby, detected the opportunity for an easy meal. She stalked confidently forward, drove off a smaller cat with a spine-tingling hiss, snatched up the fattest, freshest mouse and trotted proudly away. In the garden nearby, Hunter was preoccupied with swatting at Moneylender. Moneylender retaliated with one or two lazy swipes before sauntering off. Furious, Hunter sprang into the bushes. Goodwife ignored the hubbub and curled up in a patch of sun to groom her paw.

Sister Mary smiled. “And the Lord said, ‘It is good,’” she said, and left to attend to her daily duties.

The next morning, there were no mice.

At first Mary thought perhaps the other cats had stolen them before she’d seen them, but Hunter wouldn’t stand for that. She’d seen him chase them off if they tried. Perhaps he was falling down on the job? But no, she’d seen him kill a mouse with one swift pounce and a bite just yesterday.

“Is it wicked, to dwell so on the doings of an animal?” she asked Father Gregory in confession. “I confess, thoughts of the cats have crossed my mind during prayers, and ever more often of late.”

“Not in the least,” Father Gregory assured her. “As it is written, His eye is on the sparrow. An act of kindness to one of God’s creatures brings Him joy always. If it will ease your mind and bring your attentions back to your prayers, follow the cat for a day.”

The next morning, Sister Mary arose early, donned her habit and crept down to the kitchen. She was just in time to catch Hunter leaping onto the window and into the garden, fat mouse clamped in his jaws. She followed him into the garden, down the path, and over to the shed that housed the wood stored for winter. She watched him go behind the shed with the mouse in his teeth and then emerge, moments later, empty-mouthed, to shoot Sister Mary a warning look and stalk back towards the abbey. Curious, she peeked behind the shed.

It was mostly dark still, but there was just enough light for her to make out the sight of a brown tom with long, thick fur biting into the mouse. When he turned to look at Sister Mary, she saw he had only one eye. The wound was not old, still pink and raw-looking.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she whispered, and held out a hand.

Cautiously, the tom swallowed his mouthful of mouse, craned his neck forward, and sniffed at Sister Mary’s hand.

_“Ssssssss,”_ came a hiss from behind her.

She snatched her hand back and jumped to her feet. Hunter glared mistrustfully.

Sister Mary backed away. “Never mind me, carry on with your business,” she told him.

Hunter arched his back and growled.

Something warm and furry pushed at Sister Mary’s leg. She looked down.

The brown tom rubbed his head against her ankle again.

“Mrrrrow,” he said.

Hunter slowly relaxed. Keeping his eyes fixed on Sister Mary, he sauntered past, brushing his long flank against the tom’s, and hopped unto a log in the woodshed.

Sister Mary crouched down and scratched the tom behind the ears. “I suppose everyone has a friend,” she said with a shrug.

Hunter glared distrustfully from his log.

\---

Sister Mary named the brown tom Soldier, as he had the look of someone who’d seen some things in his time. He was friendly, but cautious, watchful.

Soldier took to following Hunter on his forays into the priory, settling comfortably into a relief role. If a mouse happened to escape Hunter’s clutches, Soldier would swat out a paw and catch it, quick as a wink, but he never made to steal a mouse that Hunter clearly had a handle on.

“Why, Hunter, you’ve been tamed,” Sister Mary said upon coming across the tomcats curled up next to each other in the sun.

Moneylender attempted to casually pass by the two of them. Hunter raised his head and hissed. Moneylender scampered. Soldier yawned, blinked his one good eye, and crossed his paws atop of Hunter’s.

“Never seen two cats but brothers behave so,” said Sister Constance, squinting out the window suspiciously. “Like a man and wife, they are.”

Sister Mary pursed her lips and said nothing.

Summer came, and with it, the parade of pilgrims. Soldier and Hunter steered well clear of the strange new humans, keeping to the darker corners and quiet back passages of the priory and hissing when disturbed. On the afternoon of a sudden summer storm, Sister Mary returned to her quarters to find Soldier and Hunter curled up face-to-face on her bed, their paws tangled together between them. Hunter raised his head at the sound of the door, blinked, and lowered it again as if he couldn’t be bothered to hiss. With a smile, Sister Mary let them be. She was sure there was something she could be doing. There were plenty of hours left in the day.

\---

Hunter arose at sunset. He stretched his front legs languidly in front of him, got to his feet, arched his back, yawned, and hopped to the floor. Soldier blinked and mewed. Hunter did not wait for him. He had work to do, and his friend was sometimes lazy and bothersome. _Dull_.

With a twitch in his tail, he sauntered off down the hall. He could find his way to the kitchen easily; he’d walked it a hundred times before. He paused to inspect a hole in the wall, poking a cautious paw inside to investigate. He found nothing suspicious, and carried on.

His garden was awash with orange light. While not ideal for sleeping in, it was most excellent for hunting some of the rarer garden animals. He’d caught a snake once. It had bitten him on the paw, which hurt, but didn’t kill him, so it was all fine.

A twig snapped. Hunter snapped into a defensive posture, head whipping around and body crouching low to the ground.

There were men in his garden. Tall men with beards and naked steel. He hissed.

One of the men snarled back, and then lifted his boot and _stomped_. The thin black cat’s spine crunched.

Hunter yowled like a scream, and then the men screamed and ran, towards the priory, weapons raised.

Hunter crawled into the tall grass. His back legs would not move, but he had to get inside. His friend was inside, the round brown tom with the one eye. He had to find him, to run. They had to run and hide, go to a new place with new humans. Hunter could find them food and protect them. That was his duty. He would feed them. He would keep them safe.

\---

In the end, all that survived of Eltisley Priory were stones and the cats. There were the numerous nameless cats who scattered when the ships came ashore, the fat black and white cat and the sleek grey one that hid in the privy, and the old orange tabby who just ran and ran and ran. They scattered from that ruined place to find new haunts, more fruitful hunting grounds.

And there was one other, a tomcat with one eye. He did not leave.

He waited.


	2. Two Men of Note (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is never an accident when they meet, and yet the universe holds its breath every time.

It is never an accident when they meet, and yet the universe holds its breath every time. The science of humans is inexact, after all. There’s only so much that can be planned for before chance and free will enter into the equations.

They never know they’ve met before, and they may meet again. But then, they might not, if they’re lucky.

They’ve never been lucky.

 

**Felchurch, England, 1602**

“You’re no medical man.”

John knew doctors. He had an instinct for it. Had to, in his line of work. When you came upon a stranger in the dead of night in your graveyard with a shovel, it was helpful to know whether he was scientist or scoundrel. Not so to the judge who put him in the stocks, but to John, sure enough. Might be he’d look the other way to a scientist, but a grave robber? Never.

The man standing waist-deep in a fresh grave was neither. Even more unusually, he was not running.

“Nor am I a thief,” said the man.

John held his lantern higher. “If you are, you’re a poor one.”

The man raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“You haven’t got a cart.”

“Cart?”

“Have you ever carried a corpse?”

The man raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Please.”

“They’re not so light as you might think.”

“Ah.”

“And they leak.”

“Many thanks.” There was a bite of sarcasm to his voice.

“So...you’ve never taken a corpse before, and there’s nothing to steal from a debtor’s grave. Either you’re very new or very stupid.”

The man regarded him calmly. “Or I don’t need the whole man.”

John considered that for a moment, then nodded curtly. “Here’s how this will be, then. I’ll leave to fetch the night watchman. I won’t run, and more than like it’ll take me a pretty minute. If we find anyone still here when we return, they’ll be seen to. If not, well. Sometimes they get away.”

He turned on his heel and marched towards the road. He was nearly to the gate when the man in the grave called out to him.

“You’re not a sexton either.”

John halted and half-turned back towards the man. “Of course I am.”

“You weren’t.”

John frowned. He raised his lantern again and moved closer to the open plot. “What are you talking about?”

The man braced his hands on both sides of the grave, hoisted himself up and perched on the side. He folded his hands together and tucked them under his chin. “You were a doctor yourself once.”

John kept his lamp down to conceal his expression.

“Or almost were. You weren’t disgusted by the implication of dissecting a human corpse, implying a certain level of comfort.”

“Could be working with dead people, you get accustomed to degenerates and madmen.”

“Ah, yes, but degenerates and madmen wouldn’t get a chance to run before you fetch the night watchman.” The man frowned thoughtfully. “You never completed your schooling. Why is that? Why is a man who was nearly a doctor working as a gravedigger?”

A muscle in John’s jaw tensed. He strode over to the edge and set his lamp down by the headstone. “Move over.”

The man who was not a thief stiffened with surprise. “You’re not--”

“I’ll carry it so far as it needs to go, and you’ll tell me how you know about me, and we’ll never speak of this night again. Pass me your spade.”

Their fingers met as John took the shovel from the man’s hand. It was a poor sort of handshake, but then, it was a poor sort of meeting.

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man said.

John nodded tersely. “John Watson.”

 

**Soho, London, 1954**

“Fuck. Oh, fuck, yeah, just like that.”

Sherlock drew his mouth slowly up John’s cock, dragging his lips over the shaft and then curling his tongue to catch under the crown and sucking as he licked at the slit. John moaned.

“God, you’re good.”

He felt Sherlock’s lips pull into a smile before wrapping back around his cock. John fisted his hands in the sheets and threw his head back.

If he’d had the choice, he would’ve taken his time. Maybe have Sherlock finger him until he was a writhing mess and then ride him until he came hands-free. But one of the drawbacks of the afternoon quickie was that taking your time was not an option.

Not that this wasn’t good, of course.

“Oh God,” he groaned. “I’m--Sherlock, I’m--”

John came down Sherlock’s throat with his hands in Sherlock’s hair, and it was positively divine. He sank back into the mattress with a sigh. Sherlock crawled up beside him and nuzzled into his neck.

John smiled. “That was nice.”

Sherlock arched an eloquent eyebrow. _“Nice?”_

John grinned. “Alright. _Very_ nice.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. John threw off the covers and rolled out of bed and onto his feet.

“Leaving?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a class in an hour.”

“Are you coming back later?”

“I oughtn’t. The sub-warden’ll get suspicious.” John tugged his trousers up and shrugged his shirt on. “Did you see where I put my shoes?”

Sherlock scowled. “I don’t want you to,” he muttered.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t want you to,” Sherlock repeated loudly. “I want you to _stay.”_

He sounded so childlike, so...vulnerable. John’s face wrinkled into softness and concern. He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached out to cup Sherlock’s face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to go either. You know that. But one of us has got to make an honest living, right?”

Sherlock’s eyes slid sideways. John winced.

“I’m sorry, you know I didn’t mean--”

“No, it’s...fine. You know I don’t deny what I do.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Oh, don’t. Just...go.”

John’s face twisted. “Sherlock--”

“I’m _fine_. Go.”

John bent and kissed him softly on the forehead. “I’ll try, okay? Give me til, ah, eight. If I’m not here by then, just assume I couldn’t make it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Fine.”

John smiled. “Shoes?”

“Under the bed and in the closet.”

“Ta.”

 

**Ocracoke, North Carolina, 1736**

A seagull was circling the boat.

Logically, Sherlock knew that seagulls meant land. Three days ago, that might have given her hope. She might have whooped for joy, sat up and rowed hard towards the west. But then, six days ago it had rained. Six days ago she had water to drink and the energy to move. Her hands had been cracked and blistered and her skin red and peeling, but she could have borne the pain. Today, though, there would be no more fighting.

She laughed. It came out more as a wheeze and left her out of breath, but she couldn’t stop. She--of all people!--was going to die of _exposure,_ and die so close to shore that there were _seagulls_ overhead. Seagulls! It was _hilarious_.

And anyways, if you were going to die, you might as well do it laughing.

Sherlock shut her eyes. Even then, she could still see the sun, a hot ball of fire burning on the backs of her eyelids. She tried to rub at her eyes, to rub the sunlight from them, but she could not lift her arm.

She was very tired, but she did not want to sleep. A girl only got one chance to witness her death. She twitched her toe to keep herself awake.

It occurred suddenly that perhaps it was not sleep she was fighting.

Could it be so simple? Was death only falling asleep?

She wondered.

Perhaps it was.

So she lay still and let out a long breath. A seagull cawed overhead. Yes, she would sleep and wait for death.

 

**Felchurch, England, 1602**

“I see,” said John. “You’re not a thief, you’re a sorcerer.”

Holmes gave him a scathing look. “You don’t believe in magic.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps, but show a man a dungeon…”

Sherlock Holmes did not seem to have much in the way of a house, per se. There was a mattress on the floor, a fireplace, and a small cabinet. The rest of the single room was devoted to shelves cluttered with canisters and jars of questionable substances, racks of tools hanging from the ceiling, and a long table that was currently occupied by a freshly-exhumed corpse.

Holmes sighed tragically. “I am a _scientist.”_

“But not a doctor.”

_“Yeeees,”_ said Holmes, voice dripping with disdain. “I’m an alchemist.”

“An alchemist?”

He wrinkled his nose. “It isn’t the best word. I don’t waste my time trying to turn lead to gold. My studies are somewhat related to the impossible field of immortality. More precisely, the opposite thereof.”

Realization dawned. “You’re studying why men die.”

Holmes smiled a strange sort of smile. It reached his eyes, surely enough, but it expressed less joy than...triumph.

“Very well.” John nodded. “What do you want from me?”

Holmes blinked. “I...excuse me?”

“You worked out that I was nearly a doctor, and then you brought me back to your house where you revealed to me that you’re studying methods of death. I’m assuming you want something of me, Holmes.”

Holmes grinned, and this time it was nothing but glee.

“Bring me that knife. And call me Sherlock.”

 

**Soho, London, 1954**

John is going to kill his sub-warden. Absolutely kill him in his sleep.

He got out of class in plenty of time, but then Mike fucking Stamford caught him in the hall and roped him into a Concerned Talk about how much time he spent with his ailing sister. There was no ailing sister, of course, but John was all the same infuriated at Stamford’s utter lack of empathy and basic tact. If he really had a sick sister he’d probably have decked him, but as it was he let it pass. And then there was traffic on the way, a car that had overturned and blocked the entire road. All in all, by the time he reached Sherlock’s shabby flat it was well past ten.

All in all, by the time John reached Sherlock’s shabby flat it was nearly ten. He took the stairs two at a time and shoulder the door open, apology on his lips.

Sherlock was not alone.

He was on his hands and knees on the bed underneath a tall, muscular redheaded man, pumping his hips fast and hard. Sherlock’s head was down, his fingers clenched tightly in the sheets. As John watched, the redheaded man seized a handful of Sherlock’s hair and yanked his head back. Sherlock hissed with pain, and as his eyes danced wildly round the room they connected with John’s.

There was a brief moment of realization, of horror, before John whirled out of the room and slammed the door.

He slumped against the wall. His limbs felt numb and his stomach was churning. There was a strange ringing in his ears. He stepped down the stairs, almost without thinking, and knocked on Sherlock’s landlady’s door.

“It’s John. May I come in?” His voice came out high and reedy.

Mrs. Hudson was an absolute prize. She took one look at John’s face and ushered him into the kitchen for tea.

“Now, luv, have a drink and a talk,” she said, pouring a sizable measure of brandy into both their teacups.

John took a long gulp. “Came late,” he said. “Sherlock was busy.”

Mrs. Hudson patted his hand, forehead creasing with sympathy. “I’m sorry, dear, I know it can’t be easy,” she said. “But you did know the score going in.”

“I know, I know. It’s not the...what he does. It’s the bloody double standard. He goes all clingy when I so much as sleep in my own bed while he’s off shagging other boys for twenty quid a fuck.”

“Oh, it’s not like that.”

John laughed humorlessly. “Yeah, I’m underestimating his price, aren’t I?”

“He cares. It’s just...hard for him.”

The front door clicked shut. Mrs. Hudson patted his hand encouragingly.

“Go up and see him.”

John nodded. “Thanks, Mrs. H.”

The door to Sherlock’s flat was hanging open. Sherlock was tidying up the room. He was partially dressed, tight jeans pulled up with the fly undone and button-down shirt hanging open. There was a bright red bite mark blooming into a bruise on the side of his neck. John’s stomach turned.

“Sorry,” he said. He didn’t feel sorry.

“You said eight,” Sherlock said. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“There was a traffic accident.”

Sherlock said nothing and tucked in the sheets.

“Are you planning on going out again tonight?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I can go if you like.”

Sherlock’s lips tightened. He shook his head.

“Do you want me to…”

Sherlock pulled the duvet up, tumbled onto the bed, curled into a ball and buried his face in the pillow.

Sherlock spoke his own dialect of body language, one that John had grown accustomed to in the months he’d known him. He knew what it looked like when his lover was anxious or exhilarated or melancholic. He knew when Sherlock was angry at John or at his brother or at everyone.

He knew when Sherlock was angry with himself.

An instant and powerful rush of guilt surged into John’s belly. He should have known better. He _did_ know better. These were not things he could control. Nor could Sherlock. They lived the lots they’d been dealt and bore the burdens that came with. None of this was ever their choice.

John sank down onto the bed behind Sherlock, molding his body to fit against Sherlock’s back. He wrapped his arms round Sherlock’s body, pulled him close and pressed his forehead to the back of Sherlock’s skull.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be like this. It’s okay. I know, and I understand, and I love you, and _it’s okay.”_

“It _isn’t.”_

“And that’s okay too, and I still love you.”

“I don’t want it to be this way,” he said, voice thick and tight.

“Nor do I. But it is, and I’ve got you, and that makes it a little better for me.”

Sherlock turned over and nestled his face into the crook of John’s neck. “Yes,” he said at length. “It does me as well.”

 

**Ocracoke, North Carolina, 1736**

When Sherlock woke, she was still not dead.

On the contrary, she was...comfortable. There was a fine feather mattress underneath her and a ceiling above. Curious indeed.

She licked her lips. She’d been given water, food. Her lips were less parched and her muscles less weak, though she was still fairly certain any significant movement would prove too much.

To test this hypothesis, she made a token effort to roll over and up. Immediately, her vision came over cloudy and her head spun. Someone reached out a firm, strong hand and pressed her back onto the mattress.

“Not just yet,” someone said. A woman’s voice, gentle but unyielding. “Sleep a bit. You’re safe here.”

“No,” Sherlock murmured. “Nowhere.”

A cool, damp cloth settled on her brow. She sighed and sank back into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we reach the story/stories proper. Do not be alarmed if the chapter count fluctuates. The word count is not changing. What's changing is how often I want to get this updated. Originally I was going to write the three stories here in full as one chapter and then the last two as separate chapters, but then I realized that if I did that, chapter 2 would not arrive until the end of time. So I'm splitting it into parts to speed up the rate of update.


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